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There was no doubt that Light was luckier than most. Her wings were strong, thickly feathered, and glossy--unharmed by the toxins which clung to the city's fetid air. Most others' wings were deformed. shrunken, featherless; others could not fly far, if at all. Out of politeness, Light walked along the streets because so many others were forced to walk. Why make others envious by gliding? It was not very pleasant to walk since the filth in the air stuck to everything and made a disgusting orangey-gray thick paste upon the ground. Everyone had to be completely clad from head to toe when outside otherwise the poisonous air infected one's skin. Veils were no longer a mere fashion. They were a necessity. Even wings were kept tucked under voluminous capes.
The smog that curled everywhere had turned the whole city ugly. The glorious carvings on the buildings had been eaten away. The once well-polished silver turret peaks were tarnished dismal gray. Gilt domes no longer gleamed; now they looked like polluted bubbles. The magnificent doors of mahogany, oak, and cherry were pitted and blistered. Every window was streaked with grime. Most balconies had rotted and hung like broken wings.
But worse than all of this was the fact that no one ever sang. Once the city had been filled with song.